The evening sun hung low on the horizon, a tug-of-war between red and black shadows. After work, Harano Tsukasa slipped into the crowd boarding a train toward Ikebukuro.
He ended up pressed against the carriage wall, right beside the window.
The train lurched forward. Inside, aside from a few corporate drones with their heads drooped in exhaustion, there were only students lost in their headphones.
Tsukasa stared out through the glass.A plane cut across the orange sky toward Haneda Airport, leaving a scarlet contrail in its wake.
Bodies were packed tight, sardine-can style. Every time the train curved, passengers swayed against each other, but no one said a word — everyone was used to it.
Tsukasa was a civil servant.More specifically, a low-level employee at the Bunkyō Ward Office — basically the district government.
He worked in the Health and Welfare Division, which interfaced with the medical industry: overseeing hospitals, regulating healthcare services, managing public health policy, and advising local clinics on maternal and child health.
It sounded impressive…But for someone at his level, it wasn't.
Kato Masami had sought him out because she thought he could use his "position" to alter a paternity test report after her baby was born.
True, the Health and Welfare Division had oversight over local hospitals, even sharing some supervisory power with the Tokyo Metropolitan Government. In theory, falsifying such a record was possible.
But in practice?She was giving him way too much credit.
He was just an entry-level clerk — the lowest rung of general administrative staff. He wasn't even a section chief, let alone a department head.
And Japanese local officials weren't glamorous figures of authority — they were basically customer service for citizens. Even senior managers could get their necktie yanked and chewed out by an angry old lady.
National civil servants had higher pay, status, and career paths. He wasn't one of them.Local civil servants barely required a high school diploma, earned less than private-sector employees, and spent their days face-to-face with demanding residents. There was no "power" to abuse, even if he wanted to.
"Forge a paternity test…" Tsukasa muttered, swaying with the train.
The fact Masami was so determined to get one meant her husband already suspected something. Otherwise, she wouldn't be desperate enough to come to him.
When she needed him, she showed up.When she didn't, she tossed him aside.And if she felt generous, she might toss him a scrap or two.
Thinking back on the original owner's history with her — and remembering the confident look she'd had earlier, certain he would say "yes" — Tsukasa couldn't help but smirk.
Selfish. Manipulative.
Falsifying a paternity test was a crime. And as a government employee, it would be knowingly breaking the law.
If he got caught?Jail. Career destroyed. Life ruined.
Yet she'd asked without a flicker of shame, not caring what would happen to him. That alone was enough for Tsukasa to mentally sentence her.
"Sure, I can make a paternity test," he thought. "Can't help her pass it, but I could always print extra copies and send them to her whole family…"
Apologize and bow like a politician to smooth things over?Why should he apologize?Why should decent people be forced at gunpoint to help scum?
No — he had his plan.
With that decided, he set the matter aside. Right now, he was far more interested in his Wish List ability — the cheat that had appeared after he crossed into this world — and the fact that today's encounter had finally given him a real test case.
He turned his head, scanning the tightly packed train car. His gaze skipped from face to face. Only the women.
After days of testing, he'd confirmed: the Wish List only worked on females. Looking at men triggered nothing.
Within his vision, invisible to anyone else, faint red panels popped up with text:
Sensoji Temple is so crowded. So many tourists. I wish I could take the money from the offering box.
I want to be Prime Minister.
My foot itches… I want to scratch it.
I really want to eat at a Michelin-starred restaurant.
I'm staying up late to binge-watch dramas tonight. I hope Mom goes to bed early so she won't catch me on my phone. I'm so scared of getting yelled at.
I wish a stranger would give me 100 million yen.
I hope my boyfriend doesn't find out I have a husband.
Every woman he looked at generated another entry. The wishes came in different colors — white, blue, purple — indicating difficulty.
The woman diagonally in front of him, long hair loose, headphones on, wearing a leather skirt, had a wish glowing deep crimson: I want to be Prime Minister.
The highest-level wish he'd seen yet.
Logically, the harder the wish, the better the reward for fulfilling it.The problem was… some wishes were borderline impossible.
By contrast, Masami's request earlier — while outrageous — wasn't hard to "fulfill." She didn't actually need the result, just his agreement. Plenty of wiggle room there.
Tsukasa refocused on the floating red panel in front of him.
[Automatic Pay Raise: 0.1 yen/sec (Active)]
[Accumulated Salary: 2,341.6 yen]
[Withdrawal: Please bind bank account]
[Achievement Random Card: Ready to open]
[Opening Achievement Card…]
[Reward: Identity Upgrade Card (Randomly boosts a trait matching your current role. Physical effect will manifest — please wait.)]
0.1 yen a second.
Looked tiny on paper.
But when he'd earned the auto-raise by agreeing to Masami's "wish" earlier today, he'd crunched the numbers:
6 yen a minute.
360 yen an hour.
8,640 yen a day.
Tokyo's minimum wage was 1,163 yen/hour, so an eight-hour shift earned more than that. But this raise wasn't limited to work hours — it ran 24/7.
That meant an extra 3,110,400 yen a year.
More than his current annual salary.
As a full-time local government clerk, Tsukasa made 205,600 yen a month — less than 2.5 million yen a year. Even with hidden benefits, it never reached three million.
And all it had cost him was a few words.Instant salary doubling.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, calming his excitement. This was just the beginning. If the Wish List had given him this much from one minor request, there had to be far more buried treasure waiting.
As for the Identity Upgrade reward… it seemed automatic, but the description said to be patient. Fine — money came first.
He concentrated, bound his Mitsubishi UFJ Bank account to the panel, and mentally commanded Withdraw.
Bzzz—
His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out. The lock screen lit up with a banking notification:
[Mitsubishi UFJ Bank]
Transaction alert: 2,347.9 yen received.
Date/Time: June 27, 19:23
Account: ****0616
Type: Transfer from other account
Balance: 1,638,762.9 yen